"You put on a good al, Lord Pendragon," he said.
The old King spared him no sympathies, and imdiately thrust his attempt at building a bridge aside. "My wife saw it organized, and my servants saw it cooked. I had no part in it," he said, as coolly as one might expect for a man in his position.
"...I might have a third plate, then," Oliver said, imdiately losing his dignified edge, and retreating towards that which he knew best – the eternal respect that he had for food, and the eternal rumbling in his belly. Sowhat sullenly did he nod when the servants asked if he’d like an apple sauce to go with his potatoes and at this ti. They seed almost disgusted that he could eat so much of the sa flavour.
Seeing him indulge to that degree, even the hostile party of the Pendragon King was unable to refrain from comnt. "Did you not eat on your way here, King Patrick?" He asked.
"I did," Oliver said, quickly swallowing his current mouthful with a bit of tea, and burning his mouth a little in the process. Flustered, he tried to keep the conversation going. "I did, but I find that I cannot eat as much as I normally would travelling great distances. Perhaps my stomach understands that I’m likely to upset it if I do."
"You have interesting appetites," the King said, with just a hint of accusation, and he stabbed his knife into a bit of rich at, and watched the juices run. An act, apparently, simply done for observation, for he did not move to cut the at, nor even eat it.
"I would not say they are all that strange," Oliver said, an equal edge to his voice, after hearing the edge in the King’s. He wondered what it was that made him like that – he had co here so ekly, ready for condemnation, but the slightest little jab from the old King, and Oliver could not help the fire that word its way into his blood, nor the way it made all that he was stir.
"You wouldn’t?" The Pendragon King said, seizing upon the opportunity. "It is an interesting appetite that puts the crown upon your head. But then who am I to criticize? So n enjoy crows. They call them intelligent creatures. Your Lord Blackwell would have said the sa. He had a fondness for them enough that he would go out of his way to feed them, and bother all of us that needed to gather near him in the process. Yet those sa birds that he praised, and he feeds, those are the sa birds that gather when there are corpses with flesh to be plucked. They’re intelligent, indeed, capable birds – but they’re not people. They lack in morals. As soon as you die, they will strip you for all that you are worth."
"I have a fondness for crows as well," Oliver replied, knowing very well the point King Pendragon was intending to make, so much so that he said such a thing as a growl, but he lacked the grace to turn the King’s taphor back on him, so all he could do was make his discontent clear.
Finally, a smile from the Pendragon King, one of condescension. He was well on the attack now, and he did not shy away from driving the knife in further. "Indeed? I wonder why that is? Perhaps a certain familiarity to them? Or would you declare that it was simply out of respect for the late Lord Blackwell? Ah. But surely not. Your fondness for Lord Blackwell, that cannot have been as strong as it seems, for is there not already talk of you dividing up his lands? Did you not have an intention of handing them over to a man that he considered a bitter rival in Lord Blackthorn?"
It was only Oliver that flinched at that. Verdant too looked surprised. There had been talk of that, but quietly done. Ernest needed a ruler, they knew, and there seed to be few better options than Lord Blackthorn. Only, of course, there were the politics around giving him the property of the man that had been his bitterest rival. Even Lord Blackthorn himself did not seem overly keen. He wished to seize it as a conqueror, but not as a gift.
"There has been talk," Oliver admitted. "Ernest should remain in the hands of those that carry Black blood. The feud between the two fractured Black Houses is long past its aning. Ands ought to be made, at least now that there are no heirs to see the Blackwell na carried on."
"Is there not still in existence Lady Blackwell, the late Lord Blackwell’s wife?" Viktor Pendragon said, feigning ignorance, as he rewarded himself with a mouthful of food. "It seems rather cruel to take away her property, and all that she owns."
"It would be a delicate matter, one that ought to be undertaken with a mind to all those involved..." Oliver said. "We have put it into consideration, though there is naught certain in it yet."
"Poor Lord Blackwell. To give his life for your troubled cause, only for you to hand over everything he owned to the man that he would want to have it least. To give away their competition to Blackthorn, and raise his hand, as if he was the victor."
"Naturally, that should be avoided. There will be certain stipulations. Lord Blackthorn, if he wished to rule Ernest, would need to revoke his na. He would not take it as a victor, but as a descendent from that House. His family na would be changed to Lord Black, in recognition of that. And the Lady Blackwell would see her na changed too – she would be a mber of that House Black, and she would be able to make her weight known in its governance."
The Pendragon King raised an eyebrow at that. "Well, now isn’t that interesting. To use the seeds planted in the past as a convenient tool in an attempt to marry it all together? Rather clever, King Patrick, but it’s hard to call it moral..."
Reviews
All reviews (0)